


b l o o d y  b a k e r s

by herbwrites



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, because vilkas is totally a comfort eater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 02:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6405970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbwrites/pseuds/herbwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should have known that a baker would cause naught but bloody trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	b l o o d y  b a k e r s

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings for food and death. oh, and sex.

He should have known that a baker would cause naught but bloody trouble.

 

She wasn’t even his type. Not that Vilkas _had_ a type – his encounters with women usually involved waking up hung-over in the bed of one of the tavern girls, and he usually developed some sort of crotch-rot in the following weeks to pay for it, but she was pretty, in a common sort of way. He’d give her that. She had thick arms, a combination of both kneading bread and eating it, he supposed, and she was a wee bit on the short side, and despite her apron her dress was nearly _always_ stained with flour.

She sold her wares in the market place every morning, and the smell of fresh baked bread would waft up to Jorrvaskr until finally Tilma caved and pushed some coin into his hand and sent him down to buy some. Business was good, he could see. She was busy parceling up loaves and handling septims, and when his turn came she smiled sunnily.

“You’re a Companion, aren’t you?” she asked him as she worked expertly, wrapping up a loaf in brown paper.

“Aye,” he said simply, looking about impatiently.

“I’ve seen you around. Though, you’re usually in armour.”

He grunted, but she didn’t seem put off by his disinterest. As she handed the parcel over, she paused, and gave him a look. He glared back.

“You look like a man who has a sweet tooth,” she told him. He scowled. Checking to see the other baker – an older woman, most likely her boss – wasn’t looking, she slipped a much smaller parcel into his hand, and returned to her work.

“Ta-ta, then.”

Vilkas blinked, perplexed by what had just occurred. With his spoils, he turned, and began the ascent back to Jorrvaskr.

 

Vilkas gave the loaf to Tilma, and then, feeling like a small child, went down to his room and unfolded the smaller package. Inside was a soft bun, dribbled carelessly with icing, and slightly crushed from where he’d clutched it. With a heart full of suspicion, Vilkas broke the bun in half to inspect it, but was distracted when he was hit with the sweet, musky scent of cinnamon. He threw all caution to the wind and bit into it, and almost blacked out. It was warm and sweet and light and fluffy, and the icing stuck to his lips and he could taste some other sort of spice, but he didn’t care, he just knew that he would never feel this good again in his life. He took another bite, and another, and another, until the bun was gone, and then licked each of his fingers, and then licked the paper, and then stood in the middle of his room, dumbfounded.

 

§ 

 

“Are you a witch?” said a rough voice. Ana looked up to see the Companion stood before her, looking grumpy and rugged in a loose shirt and trousers. She was helping Colleen to pack up the stall, but paused, and wiped her hands down her apron.

“What do you mean?” she asked, fighting back the urge to laugh at him. He cleared his throat and looked away.

“That bun you gave me,” he began, but then faltered, at a loss for words.

“It was good, wasn’t it?” she said. “I knew you’d like it.”

“How?” he snapped, a little harsher than he meant to.

She shrugged, picking up a crate. “I’ve learnt what people like.” She turned to leave, but then hesitated, looking bashful all of a sudden. “I’ve been experimenting with some recipes,” she said, twisting a hand in her dress skirt. “And I need someone to try them. Would you…?”

He perked up immediately, unfolding his arms, and she had to resist the urge to laugh again.

“I’ll see you around…”

“Vilkas.”

“Vilkas. That’s a pretty name. I’m Ana.”

 §

That bun haunted him for weeks. He lay awake at night, running his tongue around his mouth, certain he could still taste it. The smell of bread from the market every morning almost drove him wild. A parceled up loaf would arrive outside Jorrvaskr every other day, along with a smaller package with Vilkas’ name written in cramped, messy handwriting on it. Aela teased him mercilessly about a _secret admirer_ , but he merely scowled and hurried off down to his room to sample whatever Ana had sent him. It always ended the same way; he’d be sprawled out on his bed with his eyes closed, licking icing or honey or crumbs from his fingers. It was heaven. It was torment.

Of course, he was always gentlemanly enough to go to her stall the next day and offer his feedback. He dreaded receiving jobs, and dreaded when one of the whelps suggested they go out hunting, because that meant he would have to wait to either eat one of her creations or go and speak to her himself. Sometimes her face would come into her dreams, and he’d be licking crumbs of her bare skin instead of his fingers, and then he’d wake up humiliated and warm all over and would shove his hand down into his trousers and pray for whatever was happening to him to end.

 

Then Skjor died, and everything went to shit.

 

§

 

He didn’t know what do with all his feelings, but when he went to Ana and sat on a rickety little chair in the bakery staring off into dead space, she certainly did. Soon the smell of spices and dried fruit filled the air around him, and his mouth was watering and he didn’t even need to think – he just ate. He fell asleep at the table that night, and woke up the next morning with a warm blanket draped about his shoulders. She came downstairs in her nightdress fire up the ovens and see if he was alright, and he found himself having to turn away for the way his face flushed. It got worse when she pulled him against her stomach and wrapped him up in a tight hug in her soft arms and stroked his hair, assuring him that everything would be alright, and he was surrounded in the smell of simple, wholesome _bread_. He clung to her and cried, and then she sent him on his way with a package of sweet bread for the rest of the Companions.

 

 §

 

When Kodlak died, he went straight back to her again, and she tucked him up in her bed under several thick blankets and held his hand as he screamed into her pillow. Eventually she crawled into the bed with him, and held him tight and stroked his hair like before, and he gripped her tightly.

“Oh, Vilkas,” she said quietly, and he realised that she was weeping with him. “Oh, Vilkas. Oh, Vilkas.”

 

§

 

Winter turned to Summer, and his grief dulled from a sharp pain to a slow ache that he found he could mostly ignore. One evening at the end of a hot, sticky day, he went down to the bakery and found her alone, sweeping the floors, sweating like a pig. He found he wanted to lick the sweat off her, so he took the broom from her hands and kissed her. She returned his kiss eagerly, pressing herself up against him and tangling her fingers into his hair and tugging him towards the stairs all at once.

Up in her room, he crouched over her on the bed and stripped her apron and dress off and kissed her all over. She pushed him over so that she could straddle him and ran her hands over his chest and his arms and his thighs and finally, _finally_ sank down, and it felt so good that he started to laugh, and she laughed too, and then she groaned, and he rolled them over again.

 

Afterwards, he lay with his head on her stomach, absent-mindedly kissing her there, with his arms wrapped around the warmth of her.

“Hungry?” she asked.

He smiled into her skin. “Always.”


End file.
